Moving Up, Moving On
by Catfish98
Summary: One year after Mr. Bucket's tragic death, Mrs. Bucket is still recovering. Could Willy's growing fascination with her transform into something more? No OC's, no pedophilic pairings.
1. Morning, Breakfast, and a Good Cry

**_Author's Note: In response to reviewer advice which I decided I thoroughly agreed with, the end of this chapter has been edited to increase the overall quality of the story. Somebody slap me if I get that prematurely overexcited again. Also, kindly forget the previous ending if you've read it already. If you haven't, please disregard this notice and continue reading._**

Little plot bunnies have been frolicking around in my head for days now, making an intolerable amount of noise. Here is my attempt to make them shut the hell up.

I have a deep, abiding love for both the Johnny Depp and Gene Wilder's portrayals of Willy Wonka, though mine's going to be predominantly based on the Depp one. Not that it's better per se, but it's more vulnerable and thus more fanficable.

Lastly, I am deeply averse to the concept of a Mary Sue in this fandom, though I've read a few fics that pull one off successfully. To me it seems awkward to somehow get a girl into the factory to interact with Willy. Therefore, I picked the most obvious, age-appropriate choice: Mrs. Bucket. It's been many years since I read the Dahl book, but I'm pretty sure that her first name was never mentioned. So for this story, I hereby proclaim that her first name is Emma. And Mr. Bucket is Randolph. Just accept it.

Enough of my rambling…please read and enjoy!

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**D**awn broke deceptively golden and sugary over the vibrant majesty of the Chocolate Room, sparkling smugly on the gentle waves of the chocolate river and turning the pristine grass into a radiant sea of emerald.

Mrs. Emma Bucket groaned, shot a dark, half-lidded glare at the wonderland outside her window, and rolled over in bed, jerking her grayed woolen blanket further up over her shoulders and burying her face in her pillow. For some people, a morning ritual so clearly resentful may be normal, but Mrs. Bucket was, for all intents and purposes, a chipper and enthusiastic morning person. Though it may not have struck her half-awake mind yet, this day was one of the few in the year quite worthy of Mrs. Bucket's dislike.

Despite her efforts, the persistent artificial daylight immediately went to work prying her eyelids open and wiping away any traces of sweet sleepy oblivion. Increasingly wakeful, Mrs. Bucket rolled and shifted again, throwing one arm carelessly onto the pillow next to her.

The vacant, cold pillow next to her.

Mrs. Bucket was suddenly completely awake with the realization, a realization which had brought about many unpleasant awakenings in the past months.

A year ago that very day, her husband, Randolph Bucket, had died in a tragic fire at the toothpaste factory where he worked. It was unclear as to what had caused the fire. The official police report had eventually concluded that some source (perhaps electrical) had caused sparks near a vat of chemicals, which had resulted in a devastating explosion. After helping injured co-workers to safety, Mr. Bucket had reentered the toothpaste factory to try to salvage the capping machine which had been the source of his livelihood for the past 3 years, a machine which by chance he had learned was not insured. In an attempt to maintain his position and save a few thousand dollars for the company which he had devoted ten years of his life to, Mr. Bucket had lost himself in the smoke and died of asphyxiation.

Mrs. Bucket screwed her eyes shut in a somewhat futile attempt to hold back tears and exhaled a deep, trembling breath.

_Enough tears, dear, _she could almost hear her husband whispering comfortingly in her ear.

With a burst of the same strength that had helped her live through half a decade of virtually nothing but cabbage soup, she collected herself and got out of bed. She dressed mechanically and started to make breakfast, mindful of her still slumbering parents, in-laws, and Charlie.

Completely unmindful of the parents, in-laws, Charlie, and the general sullen peace Mrs. Bucket had made with the morning, the door of the Bucket household flew open. In burst the violently colorful form of excitement and eccentricity which composed Mr. Willy Wonka. Sporting a wild emerald coat with electric blue pinstripes today, Willy always seemed the clash sharply with the overall grayish-brown décor of the little house.

"Good morning, Mrs. Bucket! Ah, is breakfast nearly ready? I was my usual morning stroll along the banks of the river when I detected this most amazing olfactory sensation coming from your house. What are you making?"

Mrs. Bucket sighed in exasperation. "Sausage."

"Sausage?" Mr. Wonka seemed to perk up. "I don't suppose it's snozzwangler sausage is it?"

"I hope not. If it is, I'll have to pay a rather angry visit to the butcher this afternoon. I distinctly remember ordering the normal pork kind."

"Oh." Willy slumped in disappointment. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

Normally Mrs. Bucket would have humored his eccentric question and inevitably ensuing rant a little more, but today she was hardly in the mood to be regaled by tales of his wild experiences with exotic foods in largely imaginary lands. Charlie chose this opportune moment to descend the ladder of his attic room and yawn hugely, looking around at the two of them with sleep-filled eyes.

"'Morning, Mum, 'morning Willy." He walked over to his mother and pecked her on the cheek, then broke his normal morning ritual and hugged her firmly. "You doing okay?" He asked softly, looking at her with concern.

"Don't worry about me. I'm managing alright," she said, giving him a slightly shaky smile and returning her attention to the eggs and sausage she was making on the stove.

Charlie turned around to where Willy had seated himself, gloved hands folded on the table before him and noted that his mentor wore a small frown of concern as he looked past Charlie at Mrs. Bucket. Just as soon as he saw it, though, the expression vanished. Charlie wondered fleetingly if it had even been there in the first place.

Shrugging to himself, he gingerly pulled out his chair and seated himself slowly. Ever since the 15-year-old had gone through a growth spurt this last year, he had been forced to do everything with extreme care. It had taken only a few botched batches of candy and broken dishware for both his mother and Mr. Wonka to convince him that his unaccustomed clumsiness was no laughing matter. Granted, his mother had been a little more understanding than Willy, who had impetuously demanded that he "get this growing up nonsense over with immediately and kindly hand me that jar of sprinkles without smashing it."

The death of his father had been a devastating experience for Charlie, but after a few months of mourning, during he was completely unable to make any decent candy, he responded to his lack of a father figure by spending even more time in the company of Mr. Wonka. The two sometimes disappeared for days at a time into the depths of the factory in fits of inventive fervor, usually reappearing in time for Sunday dinner so that Charlie's massive teenage appetite could be satiated.

That very beast made an appearance as Mrs. Bucket put a plate of breakfast on the table before him, decided not to awaken the still slumbering grandparents, and served Mr. Wonka and herself. Charlie's customary serving size was now comparable to that of a baby elephant's, and buying enough food to keep the cupboard stocked was a daily battle for Mrs. Bucket.

She sighed almost imperceptibly again as she seated herself and was surprised when she looked up to see Willy looking at her intently. The corners of Mrs. Bucket's mouth twitched upwards briefly in a pale imitation of a smile as she looked back defensively at the chocolatier. After a brief stare-battle, Willy turned towards Charlie and flipped on a blindingly bright smile.

"So, dear boy, what's on the agenda for today? More work on those candy books? I think I had a breakthrough last night on how to keep the pages from melting together—"

"Sorry, Willy, but I…" Charlie paused awkwardly, then pressed on with determination. "Mum and I were going to visit the cemetery today. You can work on the candy books if you want."

Willy's smile died, an uncharacteristic line appeared between his eyebrows, and a muscle in his jaw tightened. "Oh…was it today that he…?" He hesitated, his gaze shifting uncertainly from Charlie to the silent Mrs. Bucket, who was nudging the food on her plate around listlessly. She nodded wordlessly.

There was another, even more uncomfortable, silence. After a few minutes, Mrs. Bucket stood up abruptly and began clearing their plates.

"Charlie, dear, could you wake your grandparents give them their breakfast? Then I think you should do some of your chores before we leave. I have to do at least some of the laundry or I'll never get it done today." Her voice broke and she slumped slightly at the sink, her back to the two still seated at the table. She sniffed and ran a hand across her face. "I'm just going to go get some air. You start on those chores, dear."

With that, she quickly turned and hurried out the door. Charlie and Willy looked after her for a moment before looking at each other.

Willy opened his mouth, seemed to reconsider, closed it again, and sighed slightly. "Charlie, you do what your m-mother said," Willy stumbled slightly over a word that wouldn't have gotten past his gag-reflex four years ago. "Scrub the ceiling and vacuum the windows or whatever it is that you do. I'll go talk to her."

Charlie raised his eyebrows questioningly at his mentor. Willy responded with a rare and steely look which explicitly meant "do what I say, and do it _now_." Charlie drew back slightly and, not wishing to invoke Willy's ire, busied himself with waking his grandparents.

Willy stood up gracefully, brushed some crumbs off of his lapel, donned his top hat and firmly grasped his cane before striding purposefully out the door.

Willy Wonka paused a moment, as he always did, to admire the beauty of the Chocolate Room before scanning the area for Mrs. Bucket. He spotted her sitting on the grass under one of the more impressive candy apple trees, staring out at the chocolate river flowing placidly past her.

He approached her slowly from behind, making sure to make plenty of noise to alert her to his presence. She didn't turn or make any sign that she heard his approach. He stood uncomfortably behind her, suddenly aware that he had no idea why he had insisted on coming out here. In fact, Charlie was much better equipped to comfort his mother.

Even after years of living with the Buckets in his factory, Willy was not comfortable with intimate interaction, and certainly not skilled at it. He was still uneasy with human contact, and though Charlie was his most favorite person in the entire world, the most physical encouragement he could muster with relative comfort was a pat on the shoulder.

Looking daunted at Mrs. Bucket's unsympathetic back, he opened and closed his mouth several times, took off his top hat, put it back on, fiddled with his cane, reached out one hand, and then drew it back with a small yet sharp latex "squwinch!" He cleared his throat and spoke, his voice starting uncomfortably low, then overcompensating as it adjusted like a pubescent boy's.

"Erm…M-Mrs. Bucket? Is it all right if I join you there? I mean, it technically is my Chocolate Room, so you should be asking if _you _can join me, but since you're there already and I'm the one in a position to join, I guess I have t—"

"Yes, Mr. Wonka, you can join me," Mrs. Bucket interjected quietly. Willy allowed a small smile of pleasure flit over his face before walking over to Mrs. Bucket and situating himself on the ground with remarkable dignity for a person sitting in a meadow of peppermint grass under a tree which miraculously grew fully formed candy apples. He laid his cane carefully beside him, crossed his long legs before him and rested his folded hands on his lap.

There was yet another silence, this one far more comfortable than the rest. Willy seemed to radiate the tranquility and happiness he felt whenever in this cavernous manifestation of his psyche. After a respectable amount of time (Mrs. Bucket wondered if Charlie had finished his chores by now and was waiting for her), she tucked some of her dark, curly hair behind an ear and pursed her lips as she gazed out at the waterfall.

"Mr. Bucket…Randolph…was truly grateful for all you've done for us. He was proud, though, and even if he never said it to you, it irked him that we depended on your charity so much. Two years ago he requested that he be able to work overtime more often so that he could earn more. He wanted to put Charlie through college entirely with our own money. That was one of the…one of the reasons he went back in. During the fire. I know it. He must have thought that saving the machine would earn us much more money."

She laughed, but it was really more like a sob. "And we did get more money. Except it was life insurance instead of a bonus check." Her voice broke on the least word and she buried her face in her hands, weeping quietly.

Willy felt as if something was twisting tightly and uncomfortably in his chest. He stretched out a hand, and it danced briefly and nervously in the air over Mrs. Bucket's shoulder for a few moments before withdrawing and digging in one pocket. He pulled out an unnaturally yellow handkerchief with an orange plaid pattern and offered it to the woman next to him.

She accepted it and held it to her eyes as she continued to cry. Willy's hand ventured out again, paused again in a moment of indecision, then fluttered down to pat her lightly on the back.

"There, there—" he managed a grimace-like smile which was abruptly interrupted when Mrs. Bucket let out a moaning cry and threw herself into his arms, sobbing loudly and sniffling.

Willy let out a strangled cry of surprise and tension and nearly fell over. He raised his arms away from the woman as if she was infected with a particularly nasty case of Fizzwuffleitis and stared down at her, arms wrapped around his torso and face buried in his waistcoat. He gulped loudly.

"Erm…there, there," he repeated. The only thing he could recall was that comforters often said "there" a lot to comfortees. He could not personally ever remember ever comforting anyone sincerely before, or even being comforted for that matter.

Despite his inexperience, he understood that this was a critical matter. Mr. Bucket's unfortunate and untimely death had been a massive blow to Willy's plans for the family (which, in his genius vision, would collectively live in the factory for 137 years, at which point Willy determined that he would cease to be fascinated by them) and apparently an even larger blow to the emotions of everyone involved. Willy, against all of his instincts and impulses, wrapped his arms awkwardly around the sobbing woman and continued to pat her on the back.

After Mr. Bucket's death, Willy Wonka was reminded of why he had chosen a life of isolation in the first place. People were bound to do things disappointing and hurtful, like stealing your secret recipes or dying. In fact, Willy'd had half a mind to kick out the entire Bucket family to protect himself from further pain. But seeing them in the aftermath…well, Mr. Wonka understood very clearly that they were feeling much more pain than he was, and yet they stayed together. In fact, they gained strength from each other's presence. Even better, Willy found that while they mourned, he too gained strength from their presence.

No, there was absolutely nothing more important than giving the same strength to Mrs. Bucket right now that she had shared with him a year ago, despite how icky it might seem.

After several more minutes, Mrs. Bucket's sobbing quieted and subsided to some slight hiccupping. She gently extricated herself from Willy's stiff, tense embrace and glanced up at him with slight embarrassment, wiping her eyes with his handkerchief. Looking down at her tear-reddened cheeks, Willy was suddenly reminded that Mrs. Bucket, motherly as she might be, was mostly likely younger than he was.

"Sorry, Mr. Wonka," she said, embarrassed. "I don't know what came over me. This past year has just caught up with me, I guess. Never thought I would be the sad old widow going to the cemetery on anniversaries with my long-suffering son and knitting into the late hours of the night."

"Come now, Mrs. Bucket, you're not old at all. And I've heard nothing of this supposed knitting." Willy's mouth quirked in a sly smile.

"Oh yeah?" Mrs. Bucket fished around in a pocket and brought out a pair of long needles and what looked like a recently started gray scarf. Willy's eyes widened dramatically.

"Appalling. Why knit when I have nearly a dozen oompa loompa seamstresses who can do it better than you?"

She smiled and punched him lightly in the arm. "That's no way to treat a sad, lonely old woman."

Willy practically bounced with excitement over the fact he'd drawn a smile out of her. "I have an idea. Would you like me to go with you to the cemetery?" He asked, anxious to please her.

Mrs. Bucket looked at him, astounded and stuttered slightly. "Y-you? You want to come with us to…possibly the most depressing place in the entire city?"

Willy's mouth twisted. He clenched his latex-clad hands distaste at the thought of a place where everyone was either sad or dead. With visible effort he drew himself up, breathed in deeply and said "I've come to realize over the past several years…that there are some things more important than happiness. That there are things even at times more important than candy."

Mrs. Bucket understood immediately what an meaningful thing this was for Mr. Wonka to say, though to someone else it might have seemed trite.

"Willy…I can't tell you how much it means to me that you're willing to come with us. Thank you."

"Really? Are you sure you don't want to do this with just Charlie?"

"Absolutely. Mr. Bucket thought of you as family…and I've come to as well."

Willy felt a great fluttery soaring sensation somewhere near his stomach which sent a surge of elation through his body that manifested itself in a massive, sparklingly genuine smile on his face. He felt that in all politeness, he should somehow express his gratitude or reciprocate in some way, but for once Willy Wonka was speechless and satisfied himself with helping Mrs. Bucket to stand. They walked in ineffably charged but also undeniably pleasant silence back to the house and what would turn out to be a decidedly less painful day.

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Wow…hope that wasn't too rushed or OOC. I tried to get Willy's characterization right, but I'm not sure it is. It struck me just as I was near finishing this that Mrs. Bucket **_(originally read Mrs. Wonka…Freudian slip! Haha…shifty eyes)_** seems very Mary Sue-ish. I PROMISE you that this will not be the case in later chapters. She WILL have flaws.

Please R&R!


	2. Secrets and Frosting

In case you didn't see the notice, the end of chapter 1 was edited in response to the wisdom of my dear reviewers. **(Thank you and bars of chocolate to RussianPrincess, Wicked Seraphina, Pokemongirl99, and ellina HOPE)**. Reviews keep me writing, so please continue to leave them.

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Emma Bucket had a secret.

It wasn't one of those pathetic little common secrets, such as "when I'm home alone, I eat brown sugar straight" or "this one time I stole a pack of gum from the corner store." This was a bona fide BIG SECRET. For years she had lived in fear of someone, anyone, finding it out. She imagined if someone knew, especially the small group of certain someones that composed her family and another mysterious someone whose factory they happened to inhabit, she would die of shame.

Her secret was as follows: Ever since that glass elevator had come crashing through the unsuspecting roof of their little house and Willy Wonka had stepped out, she had harbored a small but deep-rooted crush on the eccentric candymaker. It wasn't entirely baseless. Willy was rich, powerful, charming (at times), and above all made the most delicious and sensual candy in the entire world. In addition, he was handsome in a kind of eerie and ambiguous way which was somehow also distinctively masculine.

She had assumed that her little girlish twinge of attraction towards him would fade after a few weeks of living in close proximity with him at the factory. Unfortunately, the exact opposite happened. If anything, that little spark of excitement she felt every time he swept into the house or met her in the Chocolate Room while she was gathering dessert only grew stronger. There was probably something in the candy. What was it Charlie had told her? Something about endorphics or polymorphins or some such nonsense. She had never been good at science.

Of course, this irritating weed of a crush was nothing compared to the enormous depth and breadth of her love for her husband. Mr. Bucket was her entire life, which made it even more shameful that she couldn't seem to shake her attraction to Willy.

Willy. No, Mr. Wonka. It must always be Mr. Wonka. Yes, Mr. Wonka. No, Mr. Wonka. Would you like more cranberry sauce, Mr. Wonka? Please make sure you bring Charlie back by nine o'clock, Mr. Wonka.

Calling him Willy was practically begging for extra attention. Calling him Willy was like admitting that she wanted to know what it would feel like to run her fingers through his silky, unnaturally perfect hair. Calling him Willy was like announcing her secret to the world.

While Mr. Bucket had still been alive, her crush was like a little bitty skeleton in her closet that no one ever had to know about. She was still confident in the strength of her love for Randolph. There was absolutely no way she would ever act on it anyway, and she was sure Wil—er—Mr. Wonka did not feel anything towards _her_.

After Mr. Bucket's death, however, her secret hung over her head like some massively dead and foul-smelling animal carcass. She felt sure that Mr. Bucket had known. She had nightmares wherein Randolph threw himself back into the flaming toothpaste factory in anguish, believing that his wife no longer loved him. Her guilt became immense. Every time she smiled at one of Willy's bizarre anecdotes or laughed at one of his jokes, she immediately felt that she was being unfaithful to her dead spouse. A little voice inside her head would nag her continually. _Your husband has been in the ground for hardly a year and already you're pining after another man? He was the father of your child! His parents still sleep under your roof! In the same bed as **your **parents, no less! What kind of widow are you?_

And yet, it really all came back to Charlie. He was the most precious person to her in the entire world. What would he think of her if he knew that his mother had a crush on his mentor, a man he looked to as a brother and perhaps even a surrogate father?

Despite all this, Mrs. Bucket was incapable of shaking her feelings. Especially when Mr. Wonka did something so downright _nice _as comforting her on the anniversary of her husband's death and accompanying them to the cemetery (now there's true irony). It was a massive shock to her that he had actually followed through.

Wonka's personal limousine had picked them up at a hidden back-entrance to the factory (Mrs. Bucket was exceedingly glad he hadn't convinced them to take the glass elevator—it didn't make her feel nauseous, but rather exposed) and the ride had been solemn and unremarkable. At the cemetery, dressed in all black just as he had been the day Charlie convinced him to let the family live in the factory, he had stood politely off to the side, giving them space to mourn but close enough to see when they were ready to leave.

Mrs. Bucket had felt a sense of finality after that visit to her beloved husband's grave. On the ride back, she realized it felt as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. The guilt and grief she had felt for the last year had not disappeared, but it had diminished. She understood completely what was to be done; the time for mourning was over, and now she needed to move on.

As she had watched the cemetery shrink behind them out the window of the limo, she grasped Charlie's hand in her own and squeezed it slightly.

"Mum?" He asked. "Is something wrong?" He turned to look at her with concern. Willy looked at her inquisitively over his apprentice's head (something which had become increasingly difficult for him to do since Charlie's growth spurt) and raised his eyebrows.

Mrs. Bucket found her eyes drawn irrepressibly to his curious violet gaze. "No, dear," she replied with a small smile. "I think that for the first time in a long while, I'm really all right."

Willy smelled cake.

He was, for the most part, a candy-oriented kind of guy. He was firmly of the belief that at least two to three of one's daily meals should consist solely of candy. That did not mean, however, that he was averse to any other kinds of sweet things, especially ones into which candy could be incorporated. Cake was one of those things.

He drifted into the Bucket household practically suspended in the air, floating on delicious, warm whiffs of baking cake smell like some sort of character from Looney Tunes.

Mrs. Bucket, who was standing at the counter in a floral apron, humming to herself and licking cake batter off a spoon, didn't notice his arrival until he popped up directly next to her with an enthusiastic "Whatcha makin', Mrs. Bucket?"

She jumped and blushed guiltily for a moment at being caught in a somewhat childish practice that she had never shaken. "A cake for Grandma Georgina. It's her birthday today."

"Mm hmm…" he murmured distractedly, squinting into the nearby bowl critically. Mrs. Bucket shifted nervously, feeling as if she was under some examination by the chocolatier.

Her embarrassment was soon overshadowed by surprise however, when Willy peeled off one of his latex gloves, dipped a pristinely clean exposed finger into the batter-coated mixing bowl, and sampled some of the mushy remains.

He smacked his lips a few times experimentally and screwed up his face in consideration.

"Not bad," he concluded after a few moments. "Butterscotch?" She nodded in assent. "I would've gone with chocolate, though. Nothing truly says 'happy birthday' like chocolate. In fact, nothing really says anything like chocolate, since it is for the most part incapable of speech. You're going to have chocolate frosting, of course?"

"Well, er…" she considered showing him the tub of store-brand vanilla frosting she had bought this morning and reconsidered. "I was planning on making some later on."

"Excellent! Well, there's no present like the time. Wait, strike that. Reverse it. Thank you." He washed his bare hand absently in the sink and donned his glove again. With a flick of the wrist, he whipped open one of the kitchen drawers and pulled out Mrs. Bucket's spare apron (how did he know where _that _was?), this one lilac with worn lace trim. After putting it on and tying a perfect bow behind his back, he gave the kitchen a cursory glance and put his hands on his hips with the air of a man completely in his element.

"We'll need a bowl—the biggest one you have…and a measuring cup."

Mrs. Bucket, still looking at him somewhat uncertainly, complied. Willy took the measuring cup from her and examined it carefully, scrubbed the entire thing thoroughly with scalding hot water and soap, and examined it again, this time apparently finding it satisfactory.

"Excellent. Follow me, if you please, my dear woman." He turned sharply and breezed out of the house, leaving Mrs. Bucket to hurry after him, still lugging the heavy bowl.

She found Willy Wonka crouched on the bank of the chocolate river, peering into the brown depths, apparently deep in consideration.

"Does the chocolate here look stagnant to you? I've been suspicious for the past few months that we have some slow areas where chocolate's pooling and not moving along for days. It's entirely losing all of the effects of the waterfall. The waterfall is most important, makes it light…frothy…we have to keep it frothy…can't be turning out stale, flat chocolate…" He trailed off, staring distantly at the waterfall, obviously deep in thought.

After several minutes, Mrs. Bucket began to get exasperated. Had he dragged her out here with this god-awfully heavy bowl so she could discuss faulty liquid dynamics with him? She cleared her throat loudly.

"Wha?" His head jerked around and he appeared to notice her presence for the first time. These lapses in and out of reality had been far more frequent when they had first arrived, and though they had diminished, they were still a normal aspect of life with Mr. Wonka. "Ah, yes, Mrs. Bucket. Chocolate frosting…chocolate frosting, you see is as much of an art to make as chocolate itself. Full of…nuances, as it were. Perfect chocolate frosting is a truly admirable goal to strive for in life. If you would, please."

He motioned for her to crouch next to him and, after carefully setting down the bowl between them, she did.

"With a cake the size of dear Grandmother Georgina's…two layers, am I correct? Yes. With a cake that size we'll need precisely a cup of my own personal recipe of extra light, frothy, and delicious melted chocolate first off." Gingerly, Wonka lowered the flawlessly clean measuring cup into the river and filled it, pausing to bring it under his nose and take a gigantic breath of chocolate fumes which he let out with shuddering pleasure, before holding it towards Mrs. Bucket.

"Would you like to do the honors of measuring it out?"

Caught up in the sense of enormous importance and ceremony Willy had assigned to this procedure, Mrs. Bucket respectfully accepted the cup and, after a questioning look at Willy, carefully poured excess chocolate back into the river until its level had descended to the 1 cup mark.

This was, indeed, a ceremonious occasion. In the four years Mrs. Bucket had lived in the factory, Willy had _never _permitted her to take chocolate directly from his precious river. In the first week they'd been there, he had once found her about to scoop a generous amount out with a saucepan for some brownies. In a semi-hysterical state, he had pulled her frantically away from the bank and lectured her circularly for nearly three hours on the importance of the purity of his chocolate.

Willy nodded in satisfaction at her work, indicated she should pour the chocolate into the bowl and began the short walk back to the house.

"Mr. Wonka, why exactly are you showing me how to make chocolate frosting?" Mrs. Bucket asked somewhat amusedly as they reentered the house.

He turned to her with a slight smirk and twinkling eyes. "Well, I could hardly let you use that horrid store-bought vanilla stuff, could I?"

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Next time: Cooking with Willy Wonka…mmm….I'd like to get in on some of the action…

Obligatory Disclaimer: Everyone in this story belongs so somebody else. Please don't sue me.

**Read? Review!**


	3. Fun with Chocolate

Review-thankies to ellina HOPE, ashley-smith, Wicked Seraphina, The Wonkamatic, HoVis, kessie, RussianPrincess, and Gail "the Whale." I cherish reviews. Whoever reviews this chapter will receive a transfer of $42,000,000 into their bank account from Mr. James Mdugo, former Secretary of Defense of Kenya as a reward for being my close personal friend.

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After nearly an hour, four more trips to the chocolate river, and much wasted cream, sugar, and vanilla extract later, Willy Wonka was still not satisfied.

"No, you see, you've done it all wrong!" He insisted, indicating Mrs. Bucket's most recent attempt with annoyance. "I specifically told you that you had to wait until the chocolate had cooled to _exactly _102 degrees before the cream is added. You added it at 104 degrees. Not to even _mention_ the fact that you stirred it counter-clockwise."

Mrs. Bucket, who by this point was nearly at the end of her tether, blew a stray curl of hair out of her face and put her fists on her hips, still clutching a wooden spoon.

"If I'm making all of these supposedly critical mistakes, why exactly don't you warn me before I make them?"

Willy paused a moment to consider this. "Because that way you wouldn't have any mistakes to learn from!"

Mrs. Bucket bowed her head in exasperation, closing her eyes and massaging her forehead with one hand, unwittingly smearing a considerable amount of chocolate across her brow.

With partial success, Willy stifled a giggle and raised his eyes to the ceiling in an expression of faux innocence. Actually, her last two batches had been more than satisfactory. She had gotten the knack of the process with relative ease and was now very near to having it mastered. The irrepressible candymaker, though, had been having a wonderful time instructing her and even a more wonderful time correcting her mistakes. Judging by the slightly murderous look in Mrs. Bucket's eyes, however, he thought his enjoyment was soon to come to an end.

At the same moment Wonka was thinking this, Mrs. Bucket was seriously considering how well the overturned bowl of frosting would complement Willy's haircut.

"Shall we start again, then?" Willy suggested cheerfully, handing Emma another cup full of chocolate. For 'insurance's sake,' they had gotten a double serving on their last trip to the river.

Gritting her teeth, Mrs. Bucket was about to empty the failed batch into the sink when she caught her reflection in the bottom of a pot hanging nearby. She felt a tic begin to form in her left eye at the sight of her chocolate-smeared visage.

"What're we looking at? Not zoning out on me, are you?" Wonka's face swam into sight next to hers in the bottom of the pan. Mrs. Bucket noted the complete lack of any chocolate on him at all. The contrast was, to say the least, not pleasing.

With sudden conviction, she knew what was to be done.

Willy drew back slightly at the sight of a cold, mirthless smile forming suddenly on Mrs. Bucket's face. His attention was so consumed by it, though, that he failed to notice her left hand sink into the cup of fresh chocolate (currently 106 degrees Fahrenheit) as her smile turned into a full-out grin.

Faster than she even knew she was capable of, Mrs. Bucket spun and delivered a handful of warm liquid chocolate directly into Wonka's (smug little annoying admittedly sometimes cute) face. It collided with a satisfying –SPLAT!dribble—and Mrs. Bucket smiled in pride at her handiwork.

Under the dripping chocolate, Willy had gone completely white. His mouth opened and closed inarticulately.

"You…" he finally managed a few moments later, as Mrs. Bucket was washing her hand calmly.

"Oh, there's no need to thank me, Mr. Wonka, I just thought you'd like a look at your chocolate up close and per—"

The splash of chocolate into her face was totally unexpected. What happened afterwards wasn't.

She knocked his hat off with one hand and delivered another generous amount of chocolate into his impeccable hair with the other. He countered with an equally generous amount aimed at her ear which ended up mostly dripping down her shoulders, and she topped that off and settled the matter altogether by picking up the cup and pouring what remained down his shirt.

They stood in silence for a moment, staring at each other. After a moment, Willy tugged on his collar and looked down it.

"Well, that was unnecessary."

Spontaneously, both of them broke out into gales of hysterical laughter. **(A/N: see footnote)**

That was how Charlie and his four grandparents found them ten minutes later.

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Not more than twenty minutes after being thoroughly splattered with melted chocolate by none other than his apprentice's mother, Willy Wonka stepped out of the great glass elevator (wincing at the brown droplets he left in his wake) into the entrance to his private chambers.

Willy Wonka's bedroom was a fantastical place. Firstly, the entrance hall was a massive cathedral of a place, running nearly as long as the entrance hall to the factory, though without the diminishing size at the end. The bedroom itself was a wonderland combination of candy and furniture, with the occasional piece of furniture made out of candy thrown in for good measure. Half of the furniture was located in key places on the walls or ceiling for emergency use in case of some kind of Earth-flippingly large catastrophe.

The floor was covered with a deep red, raspberry-flavored shag carpet and the walls with lavender wallpaper adorned with stylized silver W's of various sizes. Two massive windows on the far wall provided a breathtaking view of the Chocolate Room.

"Just my luck that the most fantabulous food in the entire world melts at body temperature," he muttered resentfully as he shrugged out of his coat and squirmed uncomfortably at the sensation of half-congealed chocolate trapped between his shirt and his skin.

He walked over to the windows as he unfastened his W-brooch and tossed it casually onto a nearby chair sticking horizontally out of the wall.

Situated in the middle of the vibrantly colored and entirely eatable wonderland below, looking plain and dull but undeniably quaint was the Bucket household. It had taken the chocolatier a while to get used to seeing the bland little thing outside his window, but now it seemed as if the view would be incomplete without it. This was his world, his everything; candy and the oompa-loompas and the Buckets. What were they exactly? His neighbors? His friends? His family, even?

A little of everything, Wonka concluded after a moment of consideration. He thought about each one of his dear Buckets for a moment, feeling a surge of pride when he thought of Charlie, a generous amount of affection when he thought about Grandma Georgina, and a twinge of sorrow and inexplicable guilt when he thought of Mr. Bucket. When he reached Mrs. Bucket, he paused a moment.

What emotion did he associate with her? Certainly at the present a generous amount of poutiness mixed with a need for vengeance. How dare she pour chocolate down his shirt? Mrs. Bucket was nice, he supposed, in a motherly sort of way. At least…she was when Charlie was around.

But sometimes she was different. Sometimes when Charlie was asleep or at school or elsewhere, she would stop being the person who nagged and scolded and stifled and all those other annoying things parents are wont to do. These times, it seemed, she stopped being a mother and was her own person, with weak spots and feelings and all sorts of other things. She was the kind of person who cried over her dead husband and started chocolate fights.

No, Willy was entirely unsure of what he felt about Mrs. Bucket. She was, as he would so eloquently state it, "weird."

"Hmph," he murmured dismissively, waving his hand as if to brush away the thought. Thinking was certainly a strenuous activity.

He deftly unbuttoned his waistcoat and removed it, holding it at arm's length by the tips of his fingers as if it were a particularly disgusting rodent. With a carefully aimed flick of his wrist, he sent it soaring neatly into a hamper at the opposite end of the room. Wonka then turned and carefully assessed the damage to his shirt in a full-length mirror which (quite flatteringly, in his opinion) distorted his image so his head was gigantic and body was somewhat thinner than normal.

With a dramatic sigh, he began to unbutton the shirt as well. "Completely ruined. These stains will never come out. And on my favorite shirt to…"

The shirt soon joined the waistcoat in the hamper and Willy was now confronted with the image of chocolate smeared generously down his chest. He pursed his lips in thought, and quirked one eyebrow. With great deliberation, he daintily dragged a finger (still latex-clad) through the chocolate and put it into his mouth. Willy Wonka licked his lips and smiled.

"Huh…not bad."

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An hour later, freshly laundered and ready for action, Willy arrived at the door to the Bucket house. Mrs. Bucket was standing nearby, plucking sprinkle seedpods off a tree. She paused when he arrived, walking over to him with a slight smile. Willy noted that she too looked freshly scrubbed and her hair was slightly damp.

"Truce?" She asked, holding out one hand.

Willy paused a moment, lifting a hand and clenching his fingers slightly before slipping it delicately into Mrs. Bucket's. Her smile grew and she shook his hand once firmly before picking up the small bowl of bright orange pods.

"I was just finishing making dinner. We'll be eating in a few minutes. Are you going to join us tonight, Mr. Wonka?"

"So you finished the cake on your own?" Willy asked, disappointed despite himself.

"Well, I just used the last batch of icing I made. I tasted some and decided that it wasn't too incredibly disgusting. You don't have to eat any if you don't want to."

"Ah—um…" Willy mumbled. What a loaded statement! If he said he wouldn't eat any, it would be downright impolite and if he said he would, it would force him to admit he was wrong! "I'm, uh, I'm sure I've been forced to eat much worse before." He winced slightly.

Mrs. Bucket continued past him into the house, rolling her eyes once her back was turned to him. Some truce!

"Lovely!" She tried, but not too hard, to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

As they entered the house, Willy marveled at how quickly and completely the "mother" mask slipped over her real identity.

"Charlie!" She exclaimed. "Didn't I ask you to clear your school work off the table? And you're not going to get a scrap of food if you don't wash up first!"

"Yes, mum," Charlie muttered, gathering his books and papers into a disorderly bundle and heading up the rickety ladder to his room.

"Now Emma, don't be so hard on the poor boy. At least he was doing his homework," Grandma Josephine said, letting Grandpa Joe help her to her spot at the table.

"Yes, mum," Mrs. Bucket replied, unconsciously mimicking her son with remarkable accuracy.

Willy giggled and everyone looked at him curiously.

"Oh, um, er…nothing. Just thinking about a joke an oompa-loompa told me today," he lied unconvincingly.

The rest of dinner was relatively uneventful except for a few amusing and endearing comments from Grandma Georgina. Willy and Charlie had an animated debate about the pros and cons of powdered sugar. Mrs. Bucket was mostly silent except for reprimanding Charlie once for saying "shit."

Willy found himself thinking that while Mrs. Bucket would never say "shit" in a million trillion years, _Emma _probably would with only slight provocation.

At last, the main course was finished and the lights were dimmed. Mrs. Bucket appeared with the monstrously large cake, her face lit from below by a plethora of candles. Willy exited the house for a moment and returned with 5 oompa-loompas who performed a special rendition of "Happy Birthday" for Grandma Georgina.

As they watched the intricately choreographed number, Willy caught Mrs. Bucket's gaze. Orange candlelight flickered across her face and her eyes twinkled as they shared a secret smile.

Though Willy would never ever admit it, the frosting was delicious.

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**(If this were a movie or someone else's fanfic, at this point I would be clamoring for lots of hot chocolatey schmex. Unfortunately I'm the author, so I'm not allowed to do that yet. Maybe in 20 chapters or so. TT )**

Since I was denied my hot schmex, I decided to have the chest chocolate-licking thing. Blatant fan-service, but don't we all need that once in a while? Also, I tried to write some of the grandparents in this chapter. I'm usually only good enough to handle two to three characters at once. Though I would love writing some stuff for Grandpa George and Grandma Georgina, it's just too much to handle if they're all there at once.

**Read? Review!**


	4. Personalized Credit Cards Are Bad

Random thought: Some people think that Mr. Depp's Wonka is unsavory because of his resemblance to Michael Jackson. However, if you listen to "Thriller"/"Billy Jean"/"Beat It" it becomes undeniably clear: pedophile or not, those songs are _day-_amnsexy.

Reviewer thankies to: The Wonkamatic, Lady Baelish, Whale of the World, ashley-smith, RussianPrincess, sherryf101, Anon (haha), CheshireAlice, hikari-no-tsubasa, NightDemoness, Ruthie, and HoVis.

My reviewer list is growing! That's good. I want to spend even more time on this next chapter!

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"My dear bo-ooooooooy!" Willy Wonka's cheerful falsetto punctured the quiet of the morning like a pin to an over inflated balloon.

Charlie winced ducked his head, hunching lower over his plate of eggs as his mentor swept into the house.

Mrs. Bucket, noting her son's behavior with a raised eyebrow, glanced over to Willy, who was standing expectantly with both hands folded atop his cane. "Good morning, Mr. Wonka."

One corner of Wonka's mouth pulled back in a distracted smile and he nodded slightly.

"The very same to you, Mrs. Bucket," he said breezily before returning his attention to his apprentice. "Charlie! Do I have a day planned for us! First we're going to discuss taffy dynamics then test some of the new chocolate electronics out and—hey, is something wrong?" He furrowed his eyebrows in a look of consternation.

Charlie was still hunched over his breakfast, attempting to avoid Wonka's eyes. "Um…Willy? I'm really sorry, but Grandpa Joe promised he would take me out for a day in town. I really can't cancel on him…" he trailed off and risked a glance at Willy.

The chocolatier had stiffened perceptibly, his face reflecting hurt and disappointment for a moment before a look of exaggerated cheer dominated his features.

"Ah…I see how it is. Well, that's good because I had a lot of important things to do today as well…lots of prior engagements. In fact, now I have time for that quality afternoon I planned to spend with…uh…" His eyes darted around the room. "…Mrs. Bucket!"

The was a loud "clang!" as Mrs. Bucket dropped the pan she was washing into the sink.

"Whoops!" She blushed slightly. "Willy, I'm going shopping this afternoon. I'm sure you wouldn't want to—"

"Nonsense! I'm just glad I've finally found a free Saturday without Charlie to pin me down. Now we can do all that...stuff that we'd planned to do." Willy waved a hand dismissively, his face nonetheless now in more of a grimace than a smile.

Charlie looked incredulously from his mother to his mentor and back.

Mrs. Bucket had turned back away from them to the dishes, throwing on the impenetrable shield of maternity that came with such tasks. "If you insist, Willy," she winced slightly at the tongue-slip. "I'll be leaving at 11."

Looking somewhat ill, Wonka shifted uncomfortably and began to edge towards the door. "Er…alrighty. See you then…I guess."

With that, he slipped outside

"Charlie?" Asked Grandpa Joe, emerging from the small back room Mr. Bucket had built two years ago for the grandparents. "Are you ready to leave?"

"Yeah, Grandpa Joe, just a minute." Charlie hurriedly wolfed down what remained of his eggs, put the plate into the sink, and pecked his mother on the cheek as he pulled on his jacket. "See you, mum. Don't let Willy get to you too much, okay?"

"I'll be fine." Mrs. Bucket smiled faintly and waved at her father and son as they began the short hike through the Chocolate Room and entrance hall out to the city.

She sighed and ran a distracted hand over her hair.

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Willy paced back and forth across his room, pausing every few turns to contemplate his fire engine-red grandfather clock.

_10:33,_ it droned in a distinctly cantankerous way, time to get ready. You're going OUT today, my boy. Shopping. No empty cemeteries or unobtrusive shoe-shine chairs. This is the real thing. Right into the middle of the stifling press of humanity.

It sounded, above all else, _icky_.

Willy Wonka tended not to think of himself as a cowardly person. He had done a great number of courageous things in his life, from slaying snozzwanglers to facing a 24-year overdue dental inspection.

It was not that he was repulsed in general by people, but rather that over 15 years without human contact, he had grown very comfortable with solitude. Other people…well, they could be sneaky, conniving, lying, cheating, and downright mean. They spent their days out in the world, touching things and doing stuff in God knows where. They were, all of them, coated with foreign substances. Possibly dangerous. In the factory, he knew in general what types of things there were to be touched and what happened if you touched them.

Out there, all there was was the unknown.

Out _there_…

_10:42_, the clock interjected.

However, he could hardly prove to Charlie that he really had a life outside of candy if he stayed in the factory. Then there was Mrs. Bucket, who would wait for a while then sigh, roll her eyes, and mutter "_typical_" before leaving. She would be perfectly polite to him later, but in her eyes, he would forever be condemned to the status of _anti-social, untrustworthy, _and worst of all, **_liar_**.

10:48, the clock cleared its throat expectantly.

Willy stopped pacing.

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Mrs. Bucket looked at her watch. It was 10:57.

She checked her hair in the slightly cracked mirror in her room (also a recent addition) and pulled on a slightly worn gray pea coat. In all actuality, she had no idea what the weather was like outside. It was mid-October, she knew that, but inside the factory the TV reception was at best a faintly flickering fuzzy image with no recognizable sound. Mr. Wonka had mysteriously dismantled the TV Room soon after they had moved in, mumbling something about "having created a monster and destroying it before it fell into the wrong hands." So they usually went on guestimates when it came to outdoor attire.

She glanced at her watch again. 10:59. He probably wouldn't come. He had made his point in front of Charlie, and she wouldn't come out and say that he hadn't gone with her. However, if her son asked, she couldn't very well lie.

She began to walk through the door and upon opening it ran directly and forcefully into a black-clad chest.

"Oof!" It said. Mrs. Bucket rebounded back a few feet and once she regained her balance looked up to see Willy Wonka grimacing slightly and adjusting his hat. Atop his usual garb he wore his long black coat and a pair of those ridiculously large, circular sunglasses which he seemed to treasure so much.

"Excuse me," Mrs. Bucket said hurriedly. "So you decided to come?'

"Decided? My dear woman, I planned to from the start!" He laughed uncomfortably.

Mrs. Bucket looked unconvinced but brushed past him anyway and started toward the exit. "Well then, tally-ho."

"Yeah, sure, tally-ho," Wonka muttered and, after a moment, followed.

The cold autumn sunshine shone unrelentingly down as they emerged from the main factory door. Willy winced and seemed to shrink down into the collar of his coat.

"You're sure you want to do this?" Mrs. Bucket asked hesitantly.

"Heh…heh…what's…er…not to like? There's gonna be shopping and...people…and good times!" He looked suspiciously to his right and left before traipsing off across the courtyard. Mrs. Bucket had to walk nearly double-time to keep up with his long strides.

As with every time she exited the factory, the gates opened silently and smoothly as they approached them and closed after they passed. At the curb, Wonka came to an abrupt stop.

"M'kay, I'm out," he announced suddenly, giving a tremulous smile. Mrs. Bucket had the feeling he was very close to bolting back into the massive building. She dug in her pocket and brought out a small, worn slip of paper.

"First we have to stop at the grocery store," she sighed. "Charlie's cleaned out the cupboard for the third time this week." She turned to the right and began walking, only to realize 10 yards down the sidewalk that Wonka wasn't beside her. She turned and stalked back to where he was still standing motionless on the curb, grabbed his arm firmly, and pulled him after her.

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It didn't take long for Mrs. Bucket to develop the distinct impression that she had acquired a second child, at least 25 years older but markedly less mature than her first.

He trailed after her poutily down the aisle, up the next, and down again. She pushed the cart slowly but steadily, pausing regularly to pluck items off the shelf.

Willy looked around sullenly, striking his cane against the floor with unnecessary force every step of the way. His sunglasses rested atop the brim of his hat, and his coat was unbuttoned slightly. His attire had drawn a few odd looks from the haggard-looking, middle aged women that filled the store, but luckily so far no one had realized who he was.

When Mrs. Bucket paused to examine a new brand of corn syrup that had replaced the kind she usually got, Willy peered over her shoulder and cleared his throat with unnecessary volume.

"Are we nearly done?"

"No, Willy, we're not very done at all," she said sweetly. "You're going to have to be patient."

He set his mouth into a small frown and retreated to lurk around the shopping cart. Mrs. Bucket half expected him to ask if he could ride in it. Checking a smile, she settled on the corn syrup and hefted it into the cart.

Half an hour later, when they finally reached the checkout, Mrs. Bucket's cart was groaning under the weight of the food it bore. Thank God Charlie had hit puberty before he'd become the heir to a major international corporation! She would never have been able to keep him alive on cabbage soup.

Mr. Wonka was sorting through the candy display, stopping occasionally to check ingredients and giggle a bit. He finally reached the large portion of the shelf devoted to his candies and, after a moment's perusal, hefted every single box bearing his name into his arms. After Mrs. Bucket finished paying for her items, he dropped them heavily in front of the cashier.

The long-suffering man looked up at him, nonplussed. "You have some kind of sweet tooth or what?"

Wonka gave him a blinding grin. "Let's call it quality control."

The cashier looked somewhat disturbed, but began to ring up the candy all the same. Willy, the very epitome of discretion, pulled out a bright purple credit card emblazoned with his trademark golden stylized W.

The cashier accepted it mechanically, gaping at the card, then at Wonka, then back to the card again.

"W-william H. Wonka?" He read loudly. Heads turned. Willy's smile began to look strained.

"Yee-ah." He said through clenched teeth. "Look, I'm kind of in a hurry, if you could—"

"Oh, of course!" The cashier fumbled the card through the slider, dropped it, slid it through again, dropped it again—

Shoppers were beginning to drift over to the register, looking at Wonka curiously.

"Are you Willy Wonka?" A small child asked shrilly.

"Erm." Willy's smile twitched and faltered. He began to edge backwards, only to find he was trapped against the candy rack. _Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea!_ His inner monologue shrieked.

Suddenly, though, just as he began to feel cornered by the steadily closing shoppers, he saw a hand snatch his credit card from the cashier, and felt himself being dragged toward the exit.

"Here," Mrs. Bucket thrust his card back into his hand, and devoted both of them to the three heaping grocery bags she was carrying while violently yet skillfully kicking the half-empty cart along in front of her. "I swear, you can't go 5 minutes without making some kind of scene, can you? Now, c'mon. Help me carry the rest of these bags."

Wonka wordlessly did as he was told as they continued rapidly through the parking lot, staring in open-mouthed admiration at Mrs. Bucket. Over the top of the bags he, watched her striding in front of him. Sure, she was dressed in a ragtag combination of a knee-length skirt, Wellingtons, an old gray coat, and an overly large blue sweater, but he suddenly saw her true strengths: order, sense, and direction.

All of these tended to be foreign concepts to Willy, but could identify them when he saw them. Up until now, he had simply associated their presence in Mrs. Bucket with motherhood, but in actuality they were parts of her character. Motherhood gave them a direction; her love towards Charlie, but they appeared in everything she put her mind to.

Mrs. Bucket turned around just in time to see Wonka, who was gazing unseeingly into the distance above her head while he walked, collide forcefully with a streetlamp and fall, along with a shower of groceries, to the pavement.

He spat out a container of yogurt which had mysteriously gotten lodged in his mouth on the way down.

"Ow."

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Meh…somewhat dissatisfied with this chapter, but I'm not sure if I could rewrite it. Ah well, I'll forge on. The next chapter will be better. I promise.

Read? Review!


	5. Big Pimpin?

I'd like to take this pre-chapter note to remind my dear readers that this story is indeed "T-rated" and will have some sexual themes/references. If anyone thinks they would be offended by this, they should probably limit their reading to chapters 1-4.

**Reviewer thanks**: hikari-no-tsubasa, boogle, NightDemoness, Lady Lexis, Padawan Jan-AQ, ashley-smith, MaRaMa-TSG, Anon (again), RussianPrincess, The Wonkamatic, Whale of the World, Chocolate14, Ruthie, HoVis, Crayz x ALPS, Apryl Fang, Vaughn, and Maleficent Angel.

The first passage in this chapter is here on a trial basis. If you think it works or doesn't work, please respond in a review. I'd love to hear what you have to say!

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Two—no, three Mrs. Buckets swam dizzily before Willy from his position flat on his back on the chilled concrete. She looked concerned.

"Wil—er, Mr. Wonka?" She leaned closer over him, half expecting dizzy little cartoon birds to be flying in circles over his head.

"Ssstop…moving," he slurred, flailing disoriented with one arm, in the process disturbing a great many food items gathered atop him. His eyes slowly began to come into focus and the many Emma's began to condense into one.

Suddenly, and quite by accident, he felt his flailing hand settle on something soft and warm. Mrs. Bucket started and looked down. With confusion, Wonka's meandering gaze followed hers and discovered that the soft place his hand had settled was her chest.

Willy, very suddenly lucid, froze, his mouth falling open and eyebrows rising unconsciously. Mrs. Bucket looked back at him, also apparently in shock. They both paused a moment before Wonka's hand flew back as if it had been burned. He fumbled up into a sitting position, spots of color appearing on his pale cheeks. Mrs. Bucket looked positively tomato-esque.

She suddenly began to busy herself with picking up the food from the pavement while Willy carefully stood up, nursing the growing lump on his forehead. He cast about briefly for his top hat, finding it lying half-way in the gutter. His mind was working overtime, though, repeatedly replaying the most recent addition to its "new sensations" file.

He wasn't sure why the feeling of a certain part of someone's anatomy would be any different than, say, an arm or foot, but Mrs. Bucket's chest seemed to be in a category all its own. Disturbingly enjoyable.

Mrs. Bucket, on the other hand, was much worldlier than the reclusive candymaker and knew precisely the implications of the area where Willy had mistakenly touched her. A certain portion of her danced with immature glee. Another much larger part was less enthusiastic. It of course started off on how enjoying a man "copping a feel" was not only repulsive, but also disrespectful of her dead husband. Then it went on to say that the contact was completely accidental. Willy was still ridiculously innocent, especially when it came to adult matters. She wouldn't have been shocked if she found out he still thought babies were delivered by a stork.

Emma finished picking up the items and depositing them back into the bag. There was an uncomfortable silence for a long moment. Willy looked at (through) her distantly, one corner of his mouth quirked in an indefinable expression that didn't really look like a smile.

"Ehm…er, what's next on the list?" He asked abruptly, shaking his head slightly to clear his thoughts.

"Oh! Uh…" Mrs. Bucket carefully shifted the more-precarious-than-ever grocery bags into one arm and dug in her pocket with the other. She peered at the list. "Oh dear," sighing, she glanced at her watch. "For some school project, Charlie needs a book from this rare book seller on the other side of town. When I called, I said I would pick it up at 1:30. It's already nearly 2 o'clock!"

"How were you planning on getting to the other side of town, my dear woman?"

"I was _going _to walk, but obviously that won't get us there very quickly. I think I have change for a bus fare, though. If you could check…" She indicated her right coat pocket, obviously made inaccessible to her by the bags.

Wonka's eyes widened, he winced in distaste, and turned his head slightly away as if he couldn't bear to watch as he slowly and delicately slid a hand into the pocket. He relaxed when he realized that the coat was loose enough for his hand to avoid even indirect contact with Mrs. Bucket's body. He carefully explored every corner of the pocket but when it came out, all his hand held was a worn old movie ticket stub, a broken shard of peppermint, and a small, long cylindrical object wrapped in unmarked pink plastic. Willy held up this last item and examined it curiously.

Mrs. Bucket turned an as-yet unachieved shade of red and snatched it from his hand, shoving it into her other pocket.

"So…the change?"

Willy shrugged. "Nothing. That was all that was in there."

"I don't suppose _you_ have any?"

He looked slightly disgusted by the thought. "_Change_? No, of course not."

Mrs. Bucket was starting to look desperate. "I _promised _Charlie I would get the book for him today! What if the store owner stopped holding it? What if someone else bought it? I have to get there!"

Willy, whose distress was growing in proportion to Mrs. Bucket's for reasons he didn't understand, tried to think of forms of possible transportation. _The glass elevator? No, how would he get it here? By car? He had his seldom-used limo, but he didn't have any way to summon it, especially since they were a 30-minute walk from the factory. Or, he could…no, that was disgraceful! _He glanced over at Mrs. Bucket, who was looking more helpless by the moment. It unnerved him. The woman had to be completely bipolar! Five minutes ago, she was the picture of self-control and reason.

He smiled grimly, turning to the semi-distraught Mrs. Bucket and patting her shoulder comfortingly. "Don't worry, I'll see what I can do." Stepping out into the street, he held out a hand with such imperiousness that the first car that came along immediately began to slow and pull over in response.

Willy gave the driver a blinding smile, bowed slightly, and motioned for him to roll down his window. Looking suspiciously at the eccentrically-dressed man, the driver reached over to the passenger-side door and complied.

"Hi there!" Exclaimed Willy cheerfully, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a black leather wallet. "I'm Willy Wonka." He procured what appeared to be a Wonka Inc. employee ID, which bore a smiling picture of the man himself, his name, a bar-code, and a caption reading "Position: CEO, President, Vice-President, Inventor, Taste-Tester, Mentor, Dashing and Witty Sharp Dresser" below it. He held the card up next to his face and matched the expression in the picture exactly.

The driver's jaw dropped and he stared at Willy in shock and awe. He was a nice-looking guy in his mid-thirties with thin features and warm brown eyes under tousled light brown hair.

"I-I saw you on the news during that Golden Ticket thing!" He exclaimed suddenly.

"Excellent!" said Willy. "Now, my friend and I are sorely in need of a ride across town immediately. I was hoping you would consent to drive us in exchange for a signed Wonka bar." The aforementioned bar and a pen appeared in Willy's hands as if by magic. He clicked the pen expectantly.

"Ah…of course, Mr. Wonka…" The man still looked somewhat out of it.

"Fantastic! Now, who should I make this out to?"

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Ten minutes later they pulled up to a street corner in a significantly less reputable part of town.

"You sure this is where you were headed?" Asked the driver (whose name, they had found out, was Michael Rice) with concern. He had adjusted to the concept that he was driving THE Willy Wonka around, and treated him and Mrs. Bucket with elaborate courtesy. He had even agreed to take their groceries and drop them off in the large delivery bin at the factory.

"Quite sure," confirmed Mrs. Bucket, peering out the window at the street signs.

"Well, be careful. This certainly isn't a neighborhood I'd visit after dark." He unlocked the car doors and Willy and Emma stepped out, the former unusually silent and looking more apprehensive than ever.

Though Willy had begun the ride supremely pleased with himself, he now was regretting having solved Mrs. Bucket's problem. Things were considerably more icky-looking here than they had been in the already deplorable supermarket. He prodded an empty beer can tentatively with the toe of one pristine boot, yelping and jumping slightly when a cockroach skittered out of it.

Mrs. Bucket spared him an absent glance and continued to examine the stores across the street. She seemed perfectly comfortable.

"I think it's this way," she pronounced after a moment, and began walking briskly down the street. Willy paused for a second, eyeing a suspiciously human-shaped bundle in a nearby alley before following.

"How are you so comfortable here?" He asked, at the last moment stepping to the side to avoid walking over a beggar.

"Comfortable? Well, I grew up just three blocks that way," she shrugged, gesturing to their right.

"G-grew up? Here?" His voice raised in pitch on the last word as he narrowly sidestepped a suspicious puddle.

"Well, I've never exactly been rich. This was all my parents could afford." She sounded immediately defensive.

"I didn't mean anything, honestly," Willy said, holding up his hands.

Mrs. Bucket made a noncommittal "hmph" and stopped in front of a tiny, cramped store sandwiched between a Tobacco shop and an X-rated movie theater. She checked her slip of paper and looked back at the sign over the door. It read "Wilmington's Rare Books, Records, and Collectables."

A cheery bell rang as they entered the shop, and a short, plump, red-faced man at the counter glanced at them briefly before continuing to examine the rumpled crossword puzzle he was working on.

While Mrs. Bucket went over to talk to the man, Willy wandered around the small store, examining the startlingly wide array of items jammed inside it. Rows of massive shelves covered every wall. On the right, they were filled with books of every conceivable size and description. On the left were miscellaneous items of every kind, from model cars to shot glasses to baseball cards to action figures. Boxes lined up on the floor were filled to the brim with antique records organized by date and genre. Filling the rest of the store was a forest of tables covered with a variety of other items.

Willy began to paw through a box of records labeled "70's Funk." Mrs. Bucket seemed to be having a hard time with the clerk.

"—Look, the man I talked to on the phone said that he had placed the book on hold for me."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we don't have anything being held under the name," he glanced at a clipboard, "Rucket."

"Bucket! B-ucket, like what you use with a mop—"

Having selected a few records, Willy moved on to the collectables, looking over them cursorily until the elaborate swirls of his trademark "W" caught his eye.

"—No, I do _not _want to purchase a similar book. I need the one I called in to reserve—"

On one shelf there was a small display labeled "Wonka Memorabilia." It contained everything from framed antique candy wrappers from the early days of his first candy shop (Willy smiled nostalgically as he examined these) to signed photographs of his factory's opening to one of the aprons worn by his first employees to an old but well-loved top hat he had lost once when a particularly enthusiastic crowd of admirers had attempted to get his autograph. He eyed it fondly and caressed the glass of the case in which it was contained.

"Excuse me, sir!" He said loudly, interrupting Mrs. Bucket mid-tirade. "I would like to purchase this item, please." He indicated the hat.

"Sure," mumbled the overweight clerk, lumbering over and fumbling with his keys. He gingerly removed the hat from the display and trudged back over to the counter. Wonka laid the records down next to his hat and waited calmly, both hands atop his cane, as the clerk rang them up.

"Oh, also," said Willy as he calmly handed the man his credit card, "please give this lady the book she reserved. I'm afraid I've gone through a lot of trouble for its sake and would be excessively sore if we were forced to leave this store without it."

The clerk, who had looked at the credit card while Willy was talking, paled.

"Y-yes, sir, of course. Just give me a moment, please." He hurried into a back room. Willy turned to Mrs. Bucket with a grin that died almost immediately at the dark look on her face. He uncomfortably looked down at his folded hands until the clerk remerged, panting slightly and carrying a worn-old book with a sticky note attached to its cover reading "Bucket."

"Put it on my bill, if you would be so kind." Willy smiled toothily at him.

"Yes sir."

A few minutes later they were emerging from the shop and walking back up the street. Willy exchanged his current top hat for the old one in the bag and examined it fondly.

"This was my favorite hat. I was depressed for days after I lost it. What a stroke of luck to find it here!" He glanced out of Mrs. Bucket out of the corners of his eyes, but she was apparently in a bad mood and did not respond.

Willy paused for a moment and used his reflection in a display window to don his old hat and readjust it. After giving his reflection a winning smile (and earning a bashful smile in return from a young female cashier inside the store), he turned to find Mrs. Bucket was nearly half a block ahead of him.

Mrs. Bucket was fuming. _Why does he feel he has to use his fame to get me out of every dilemma I'm in? It's like he thinks I'm incapable of taking care of myself!_

So involved was she in her anger that she didn't notice the gang of three young men fall into step behind her.

"Hey, lady!" One called suddenly. "How much for a quickie?" His cronies laughed. Mrs. Bucket stopped and turned around in surprise.

"Why settle for just a quickie? How much for the whole night?" Another added.

"C'mon, baby," the first approached her and grabbed her hand, pulling her close to him and wrapping an arm around her waist. Mrs. Bucket leaned back in fear and disgust. "Come home with me, and I'll show you what a real man can do."

Someone cleared their throat. "Excuse me, gentlemen."

The men turned around. Willy stood behind them, one hand casually resting on his cane. His posture looked relaxed and normal, but there was some indefinable challenge in his stance. He slipped his free hand into the inner breast pocket of his coat.

"Would anyone like to tell me what's going on here?"

The men, looking him up and down and noting his attire, appeared to be startled and frightened. The one holding Mrs. Bucket immediately released her and backed away, along with his friends.

"Uh, yeah…let's get outta here," one muttered. They looked around shiftily, like dogs caught chewing on their masters' shoes, and hurried away.

As soon as they were out of sight, Willy dropped his condescending smirk and examined Mrs. Bucket, concern lining his features.

"Are you alright? Did they do anything? Is—"

"I'm fine," said Mrs. Bucket, still a little jittery. "Just some hoodlums…"

Willy looked dubious but didn't press the matter further as they continued to walk in silence. Half an hour later as the sun began to dip below the horizon, they stood at the factory entrance. The gates swung noiselessly open before them.

"Willy," Mrs. Bucket said softly, examining her shoes. "I wanted to…to thank you for helping me out today. I know I was a little ungrateful for it, but you really were great." She glanced up at him, hoping that her secret did not shine too brightly in her eyes in the dim twilight. "Especially for that…last part."

Willy's face held an unreadable expression. He was silent for a moment. Finally, he spoke.

"Well, I've always known there were benefits to dressing like this other than looking devilishly handsome."

He laughed and soon Emma joined in. The two walked slowly side-by-side into the massive monument to all that was good, sweet, and child-like in the world, and for the first time they were two children and two adults all at once.

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I liked this chapter. It took me a while to write, but I think it works more and advances the Willy/Mrs. B relationship. Please review on the topic I addressed at the beginning of the chapter in addition to your normal reviews. I really need everyone's input!


	6. 1,3,5 Cyclohexatriene

Yay! New chapter! Trust me, I'm as happy about this as you all are.

Reviewer thanks: Wicked Seraphina, hikari-no-tsubasa, Anon (now becoming most intriguing reviewer if only because of mystery factor), MaRaMa-TSG, Padawan Jan-AQ, Maleficent Angel, boogle, The Wonkamatic, Drummergirl148, savage benediction, Artoveli, Whale of the World, RussianPrincess, Chocolate14, Crayz x ALPS, Jennifer, teshara, and Icarusy. **Cheez-Its all around!**

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"I never…" Willy Wonka's eyes slid lazily across the perimeter of the Chocolate Room, admiring the way the dimming of the artificial light blended the landscape into its dark walls, making them seem endlessly distant. "I never wore white after Labor Day." He folded his hands behind his head and arched his back against the sugary green grass and turned to his companion with a lopsided grin.

Mrs. Bucket smiled ruefully and took a gulp from the bottle of Wonka's Sizzling Sweet Strawberry Smoke she held casually across her stomach. "I never did have a good grasp on fashion taboos. It's interesting that you're so certain about it, though."

"Simple," said Willy in reply. "I've never worn any more white clothes than my school uniform shirt or a pair of gym socks."

She looked aghast. "Never?"

Willy smiled indulgently and pronounced firmly. "Never."

She snorted. "Liar."

He ignored her and gestured vaguely with his own bottle (Wonka's Tangy Tart Toothsome Toddy). "C'mon, it's your turn."

"Mmmm…" She lifted her eyes thoughtfully to the distant ceiling. "I never drank booze custom-made by the world's most famous candy maker before."

"Most famous, most handsome, most talented, most intelligent, most modest…" Willy listed contemplatively as he took a drink.

Emma rolled over onto her stomach and propped her chin up on one palm, looking at Willy.

"Hey," she said. They were both by this point somewhat inebriated.

"Heeeey," he replied, his eyes drifting closed and open again before wandering over to meet her gaze.

"How come you don't sell this stuff? It's exccccellent. You'd make a fortune." As if to emphasize her point, she ran her tongue around the mouth of the bottle.

"Now you see—(hic)—here, Mrs. Emma Bucket," he gestured violently with his bottle. "I'm a famous chocolatier. I have a reputation to maintain. I can't go around—"

"You don't go around." Mrs. Bucket interjected.

"—I can't go around selling alcohol when there are millions of children out there who cherish my candy. What kind of example would that set?"

"You're a nice guy, Willy." She yawned widely. "I think I've known that for a long time. I think that's probably why I…why I…" She trailed off.

"Why you what?" Willy craned his head around to look at her. Mrs. Bucket had dozed off, nestled comfortably on folded arms with the half-empty bottle pressed against her cheek, an endearing half-smile on her face. He smiled indulgently and took a moment to examine her sleepily. She really was much more fun to be around when she was like this. He propped himself up against a licorice-whip willow and let his eyes trace the curve of her jaw, her neck…

He had never been so entranced by another person before. Maybe it was something in the air, maybe it was the drinks. The night had started out normally enough…

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"Mum!" Charlie called through the house. "Where are you?"

"Back here, dear," Mrs. Bucket replied. This particular afternoon, she happened to be lounging on a hammock she had set up between the two particularly sturdy candy apple trees that had sprouted up mysteriously a few years ago. There were by this point quite large and picturesquely framed the Bucket house, also discretely providing a method of late-night escape from Charlie's bedroomthat Willy and Charlie didn't know she knew about.

After a long day of cooking, dusting, and mopping the floors (a frequent task due to the sticky residue which quickly built up on itfrom so many feet tromping in and out from the candy wonderland), she'd wanted to unwind and had curled up in the hammock with her favorite old, dog-eared paperback. Alas, her much-needed R&R was short-lived. Mothering sure was bothersome sometimes.

"Hey, Mum," Charlie poked his head around the corner of the house. "Do you think I could spend the night at Jake's house?"

"That depends," she replied patiently. "What are you planning to do at Jake's house?"

"Er…just watch some movies, you know, hang out and all that."

"Which movies exactly and what does "all that" entail?"

Charlie slipped into traditional "teen sulk"-mode and muttered something resentfully.

"Pardon?"

"Jake rented 'Saw' and 'Dawn of the Dead.'" He said with slightly more volume.

"Now that wasn't too hard, was it?" Mrs. Bucket smiled inwardly. "You can go, Charlie."

His eyes lit up. "Really?"

"Really really. Just be back by noon tomorrow; you still have to do your chores!"

"Yeah, yeah." He was already disappearing back around the corner of the house.

Mrs. Bucket leaned back into the hammock, paperback resting open on her chest, and sighed. Mothering was indeed very bothersome.

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Grandpa Joe, noting his daughter's somewhat tired and sedentary mood, volunteered to escort Charlie to the factory exit, and Mrs. Bucket only asked if he'd packed his tooth brush before they left. Both he and Charlie found it considerably unusual.

"Grandpa Joe," Charlie asked as they ducked through the undersized door and into the entrance hall. "Has mum seemed a bit…off to you recently?"

The old man gave a wry smile. "Yeah, I've detected something unusual. You never know what it is with women, sometimes not even your own daughter."

Charlie, who had only very rarely encountered something his grandfather couldn't explain was even more disturbed. "It's like…it's like she's different. Less like herself. She never would have let me go see 'Saw' and 'Dawn of the Dead' before. Today it was like she had no problem with it! I mean, it's not that I'm complaining," he said hastily, glancing about as if his mother might leap out of some corner and shout _Ha! No sleepover for you! _in the manner of the Soup Nazi.

"Of course not!" Grandpa Joe laughed and gave Charlie a light push out the door. "Now stop worrying and enjoy yourself! Just don't come home with any ideas."

Charlie grinned impishly and gave a brisk wave before striding purposefully toward the gate, shouldering his backpack.

Grandpa Joe's smile slowly melted as he thoughtfully closed the door. He certainly had noticed a difference in his daughter's mood in recent weeks. She had seemed more carefree, less intently focused on the order of the house. As today's events effectively illustrated, she was being less—for lack of a better word—tight-assed.

He couldn't honestly say her behavior displeased him. She had been far stricter than she normally was ever since Randolph had died. He had been worried that she was so permanently damaged that she had forgotten how to be happy.

This sudden mood shift, though obviously in the right direction, was disturbing. He wasn't exactly sure he knew its cause, but he strongly suspected that it had something to do with a certain chocolatier who had been spending an increasingly large amount of time with his daughter.

That was, for some reason,what really worried him.

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That very same chocolatier was at that moment perched on a stool in the Inventing Room, prodding what appeared to be beach balls floating in a vat of pink goo with a long metal stirring rod and talking to himself.

"Simply not thin enough to be light and un-filling…but what can I add? Turpentine is certainly not a choice…water has no flavor…I wonder what some ethyl alcohol would do…"

Two oompa-loompas in lab coats stood on the floor next to the vat and took careful notes of Wonka's mutterings on clipboards.

Willy smirked secretly and nudged some of the beach ball-like things out of the way with the stirring rod before thrusting one hand towards the two oompa-loompas demandingly. "Ladle!"

A ladle appeared as if by magic in one of the oompa-loompas' hands and hegave it solemnly to Willy. The candy maker spooned a large quantity of the goo into the ladle and poured it into a nearby beaker. With the skill and ease of long practice, he added several liquids to the goo until it had an almost water-like viscosity. He held the beaker up to the light and swirled it gently, appraising it.

"This one's going to be good," he murmured, a grin slowly spreading across his face.

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"Mrs. Bucket?" Willy poked his head through the door of the Bucket house. The main room was empty except for Grandma Georgina (who was asleep and snoring lightly) and Grandpa George (who was reading and looked up at him sharply when Willy spoke).

"She's not in here, Wonka," Grandpa George snapped in a low voice.

One side of Wonka's mouth twitched in irritation. "May I ask where she is, then, Mr. Bucket Sr.?"

"Maybe you should go find her yourself!"

"I'm bloody well in the back trying to have some peace and quiet!" Mrs. Bucket's voice was still clearly irritated despite being muffled.

"Ah," Willy's eyebrows jumped slightly and with a half-smirk at Grandpa George, he backed out of the house and walked around back.

"What's the trouble?" Sighed Mrs. Bucket, looking up from her book to see Willy rounding the corner.

"Er…no trouble. Just, ah…" His eyes rolled up and to the left for a moment as he struggled to remember why he had come. "Oh yeah!"

He reached into his coat and somehow produced two rather sizable bottles of garishly-colored liquid. Mrs. Bucket eyed them suspiciously. The last time he'd brought her bottles of liquid, they had turned out to be special fertilizer for a particularly delicate sugared-rose bush that had ended up near the Bucket house. He hadn't fully explained this though, simply stating "This is for the roses." Mrs. Bucket had tasted it, liked it, and decided to make it into a vinaigrette and put it in a salad garnished with petals from the sugared rose bush.

When Willy found out, he had demanded the entire family have their stomachs pumped as the fertilizer apparently contained a potentially lethal concentration of 1,3,5-cyclohexatriene. Grandma Georgina soon thereafter proclaimed that she found benzene to be inexcusably rude.

Meanwhile, Willy was grinning at her expectantly.

"Um…what are they? Tell me now if I'm supposed to water something with them."

"Don't be ridiculous, my dear lady! Here, read the labels!" He thrust the first bottle (filled with fluorescent pink liquid) into her hands.

"Wonka's Sizzling Sweet Strawberry Smoke," she read aloud. "Swirls of scrumptious strawberry mixed with snappy red pepper for a sweet yet spicy sting. Caution: Do not consume while pregnant, ill, unaccustomed to extreme flavor, or already inebriated to the point of being a nuisance to fellow partygoers, significant others, friends, automobile drivers, ocelots, etc."

"Isn't it an absolutely fantastic label?" Gushed Willy, practically bouncing with glee.

"Willy…" Mrs. Bucket began hesitantly. "Is this…alcoholic?"

"If it wasn't alcoholic," Willy smiled eerily, a slightly deranged glint in his eye, "would I really bother adding the warning about ocelots?"

There was a long pause, wherein Mrs. Bucket shrank back uneasily.

"Ahm…" She cleared her throat. "So why are you showing them to me?"

Willy's smile slipped off his face and he looked around shiftily, as if trying to come up with a suitable answer. "Er…well, I obviously can't taste test these with Charlie since he's underage, and the oompa-loompas have an incredibly low tolerance for alcohol. Two sips and they'd be getting into the supply of edible silly string and trashing the T-Bone Steak Jell-O Room again."

Emma couldn't suppress a giggle at this, and Willy's smile returned, relieved.

"Anyway, I knew you needed a break and thought 'Hey, Mrs. Bucket could give me some pointers!' I'm not extremely experienced when it comes to the finer points of alcohol. Not that I think you are or anything!" he said quickly. "I mean, it's just I know you have had vodka and brandy and stuff and I don't typically like either of them. Not that they're bad drinks, but I tend to be more of a wine guy myself even though I have an extremely high tolerance for alcohol and—"

"Willy, it's fine, I understand," she cut in. She made as if to open the bottle and paused. "Shall we?"

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Artificial and completely unjustly cheerful daylight once again pried Emma Bucket's eyes open.

"Bloody HELL," she shouted, upon realizing that aforementioned sunlight had the effect of sending daggers of pain through her eyes and into her brain. She forced her loudly protesting body to sit up and felt an even louder and angrier protest from her back. "How did I fall asleep in the middle of the Chocolate Room?" She asked herself perplexedly.

She looked around and with a small 'a-ha!' of triumph, noticed Willy Wonka sprawled unceremoniously against a marshmallow toadstool. The previous night's events came back to her all the sudden as she rubbed her aching head. "'Extremely high tolerance for alcohol' my ass," she muttered in Willy's direction.

The chocolatier mumbled something and stirred, snuggling closer to the toadstool.

"Hey," Mrs. Bucket prodded him in the side. "Hey. Wake up." She prodded him harder.

All the sudden, he sat bolt upright, eyes wide, and shouted "Tree Sap Lampshades!"

"It's good to know that one of us is still thinking clearly." Mrs. Bucket stood and fetched her nearly empty bottle from where it had rolled dangerously close to the river.

"What was it? Did you write it down?" Willy was looking around, wide-eyed and frantic.

"Write what down?"

"My morning epiphany!"

"Oh. No, you're on your own there." _Absolutely bonkers,_ she thought. Still slightly resentful that Willy had initiated the most massive hangover she'd had for ten years, she left him sitting on the hill and tromped back towards her house, squinting against the unnecessary light.

Things were not better inside the house, however.

"Emma!" Exclaimed Grandpa Joe as she entered. "Where have you been? Where's Mr. Wonka?"

All four of the grandparents were out of the bed and dressed, even Grandma Georgina. Something was seriously wrong.

"What is it?" Willy had appeared behind her at the door and was looking in apprehensively.

"It's Charlie," responded Grandpa George gravely. "He's gone missing."

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Ack! Suspense! I'm extremely sorry for the very long wait. School has been increasingly hectic, what with very long essays and college apps to do. I hope the next update won't take as long!

Chemist's note: If you're really on the ball, you'd easily be able to spot the 1,3,5-cyclohexatriene**is** in fact the same thing as benzene, a common part of aromatic compounds. I'm sure Willy knows this as well.

**Read? Review!**


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